


Whiskey Sunrise

by Astrid Winchester (timelord_hunter_consultingdetective)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Sad, Smut, Superwholock, supernatural ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3441011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelord_hunter_consultingdetective/pseuds/Astrid%20Winchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First work on AO3... I'm working hard on chapter two :) if you have critique, let me know please and thanks</p></blockquote>





	Whiskey Sunrise

Dean wasn't used to silence riding shotgun. His entire box of classic rock cassette tapes had failed him, and the normally pacifying sound of the huge engine on the Impala revving and rumbling only seemed to set him on edge. It was as if a whole half of him was missing, and quite frankly, it was. Sam filled up a considerable amount of space; his brother was six foot four on a bad hair day. The light that shone through the unblocked window was equivalent to that of a supernova.

Instead of Sam, there sat an overpolished Colt and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The saddest part was that nowadays, this was normal.

Not, of course, as normal as the steady drone of a plaid-draped moose reciting law-related bullshit to no one in particular. Car rides were his practice time, his time to "stay all brushed up" on everything he had ever learned.

He had believed that he would still get the chance to graduate. That he wouldn't have to die for the only person he cared about.

"Dammit, Sammy!" Dean growled the curse to empty air and banged his fist on the steering wheel. He knew, of course, that it was his own fault that Sam was gone. That because of him, the silence riding shotgun was here to stay. That because of him, he would never again have somebody watching his back, helping him out when only a brother could know he needed it.

Dean knew he wouldn't last long on his own.

He didn't care.

Life without Sam wasn't really life, anyway.

So Dean spent his days hunting. He was more often than not on a case, and sleep was a rarity. Without a reason to live, he was taking more dangerous and more deadly risks daily. He was a ruthless assassin. He was feared. Flirting was no longer a way of life. Dean stopped trying to connect with anybody at all, and nights at the closest bar were spent quietly nursing one, two, three, more beers. His green eyes never met anyone else's. They only followed the lines on the road to wherever he was going next.

The wheels of the Impala were easily following the gentle curve of the country road that Dean was driving on. He had just finished a hunt, and he fittingly looked as if he had just walked out of battle. He no longer worried about blood on the seats. There was a map sitting next to him, and circled in red was a cheap motel only a few miles away; it was getting dark quickly and Dean knew that he had to prepare for the coming night: sleepless, and due to be spent researching. Better to salt the doors and windows before the lights went out.

***

He rolled into the parking lot of the motel a short twenty minutes later; the dusk was just fading into a black, starless night. Pulling the keys out of the Impala's ignition, Dean pushed his door open and smoothly swung himself out of the driver's seat. He slammed it behind him, tossing the keys up and catching them with a cold jangling.

Dean's boots crunched nosily on the gravel as he sauntered around to the back of his car. Fitting the key into the lock on the trunk, he pushed it open and surveyed the contents. He grabbed a black duffle bag, a pistol that he shoved into his waistband, and a wallet containing a false identity and enough money to get him a room for the night. Slamming the trunk, swung the duffle over his shoulder, dropped the keys in his pocket, and walked away from his car. His boots were new, and they dully reflected the light that spilled through the door to the motel lobby. Pushing the door open roughly, he slouched inside and walked up to the front desk. Nobody was there, so he rang the small silver bell on the counter and waited.

Nearly a minute later, a young woman stumbled into the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning ungracefully. Upon seeing Dean, she froze, tucked her messy bleached-blonde hair behind her ears, tugged the hem of her shirt down a bit, and gave him a hazy and slightly confused smile. He didn't return it.

"Hangover," she slurred, as if explaining her disheveled state. Dean just pulled out his credit card and held it out to her.

She walked over to the worn counter and accepted the card from Dean. As she swiped it through the old cash register, she introduced herself. Her name was Daisy, and her dad owned the motel. She had an affinity for White Russian. She no longer had an affinity for cocaine, though Dean wasn't buying that story. She finally looked up and held out her hand.

"ID?" she quipped. Dean handed it over. Staring at it bemusedly, a lazy smile dusted her face.

"James Hanson," she said triumphantly, looking back up at Dean. "Age twenty-four, lonely, and single." She have him a ditzy smirk.

"I'll be needing my keys and my card. And I only date pretty girls, so quit flirting with me."

Daisy's face fell, and she handed him back his ID.

"You don't have to be so mean about it," she mumbled defensively. She leaned down and opened a cabinet, pulled out a pair of keys with a plastic tag marked '305', and slapped them down on the counter. "Elevator's that way," she said, jerking her head to a hallway at the right. Dean picked the keys, slung his bag over his shoulder, and turned to walk away, but paused.

"Any bars?"

Daisy didn't miss a beat. "Few blocks down Harthrow. Look for the blue neon sign." She paused expectantly, as if waiting for a reply. "Um, hello? You're welcome."

Dean didn't respond, and Daisy watched him walk to the elevator with half-asleep and slightly annoyed eyes before giving an exasperated sigh and shuffling back out of the lobby.

**Author's Note:**

> First work on AO3... I'm working hard on chapter two :) if you have critique, let me know please and thanks


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